


Skin & Bones

by Frolmes



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Anorexia, Bulimia, Drug Abuse, Drug Use, Drugs, Eating Disorders, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Sherlock Holmes Has an Eating Disorder
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-29
Updated: 2020-09-02
Packaged: 2021-03-06 18:41:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 9,523
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26173636
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Frolmes/pseuds/Frolmes
Summary: Sherlock Holmes has an eating disorder, killing him slowly, and he won't(can't) let go. John Watson will not watch him die. Is there even a compromise?
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes & John Watson, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 17
Kudos: 57





	1. To Turn to Ash

**Author's Note:**

> This is NOT me condoning eating disorders, more so an attempt to deal with my own.  
> Read at your own safety - this might be very triggering to people with a past of/with a current ED.

Sherlock Holmes could recognise over 140 types of tobacco ash, could identify a software designer by his tie, an airline pilot by his left thumb, and yet, however hard he tried, he couldn’t deduce himself. He had once been told, quite reliably, that he did not posses a heart, that he was ‘a bloody sociopath’, and he had clung to those descriptors for long, so long that he hadn’t ever thought he would be anything else.  
Then he met John Watson.

When he first saw the ex-soldier, he saw everything about him at a glance, saw the PTSD, the nightmares, the alcoholic brother(well, sister, but what did it matter?), but worse; he saw himself. In those eyes, he saw his own downfall, and yet, there was nothing to be done about it. Or even worse, there was nothing he did want to be done about it.  
The doctor moved in, much to Sherlocks delight. Even the trivial fights about Sherlocks sleep schedule, the grocery shopping, the macabre experiments all over the kitchen were fun. Well, not that fun, it was quite mundane, but Sherlock enjoyed it: He loved it. For the first time in way too many years, he felt human, and whether that was good, he did not know, but at least he wasn’t alone. Not anymore.

The first few cases flew by. The lady in pink, the banker. All good. It seemed like paradise, really, to Sherlock, he was quite enjoying himself.  
And then it hit him. The old ghost in the attic, the one he thought was long gone, came to pay a visit late one Thursday night after the solving of the banker-case.  
John had ordered Chinese food, lots of it, just to celebrate the solving of the case that had seemed impossible, quickly made mundane by Sherlock.  
John indulged in the food, Sherlock as well, eating til he was full, and then a bit more. The friendly chatter at the table took his mind off of the fullness building in his stomach, eating more and more with no restraint. And when John stood up to take a shower, it hit him.  
Nausea.  
He knew this feeling, not from sickness, not the stomach flu, no, this was a different kind of nausea. The kind that had haunted his childhood and teenage years, the ghost that had haunted him for 20 years, and now came back. It was periodically, he knew that, it would probably go away soon, and to do it just one more time wouldn’t hurt – right?  
He hurried out of the back door, nausea making it difficult, his stomach aching. The sweet relief came only as he shoved two fingers down his throat behind the trash cans, vomiting up every bit of the meal he had just eaten.  
In the middle of the act he didn’t care if anyone saw or heard – not even John, the doctor that would surely look at him differently. He just … Didn’t care.  
It took him three minutes and fifty-four seconds. Three minutes and fifty-four seconds, then he felt clean. With the sleeve of his shirt he wiped his mouth, almost vomiting again at the smell of the throw-up on the ground.  
He straightened his back, turned away, and walked back up to 221B Baker Street as if nothing was out of the ordinary.

John didn’t pick up on it, that something was different. ‘Sherlock never eats on cases anyways’, John thought.  
Maybe he didn’t know, maybe he was too stupid to see it, Sherlock considered, but another possibility crept in the back of his mind, screaming, ‘He doesn’t care, he just doesn’t’. And if words could ever kill Sherlock, those would be the words.  
He had a little black book, hid where he would normally store something much more important, his stash. The stash had been thrown out by John, just because “drugs never solve anything, Sherlock!”, and now it was replaced by a new addiction.  
Pale, boney hands caressed the book before they picked it up, flipping the pages to find the most recent one. It was all numbers. Calories, weight. Every single day had its own page, and every single day he would scribble down changes in his body as well.  
28th of March, didn’t eat today. my wrist are thin enough for me to wrap my hands around. Well, not too impressive, I have large hands.  
29th of March, my ribs are more prominent, but it might be wishful thinking, even though I didn’t eat today.  
30th of March, I haven’t had anything to eat today, and my collarbones are beautiful, but they could be more prominent.  
31st of March, I think I notice a change in my face now. But it might just be the light. Not eating today.  
1st of April, I’m very dizzy, haven’t eaten, but I’ve never felt stronger. My cheek bones are sharp, but ...  
He looked upon the unfinished sentence, scanning it. He remembered what had happened, why it remained unfinished – well, of course he remembered, he was Sherlock Holmes! –, and it scared him a bit.  
He traced the writing with a deadly pale finger, could almost see himself collapse on the floor with the book still in hand. Fortunately, John had been at work with Sarah, so he didn’t find out. That would not have gone very well, Sherlock thought. But what was the big deal? He had regained consciousness quickly, nothing to worry about.  
He wrote down in the book ‘3rd of April, didn’t eat today’, a bit premature, but he had control, control pouring in his veins, and nothing, nothing could change that.  
As he stood in front of the mirror, a small smile appeared. He was in control. Finally.

Sherlock would’ve never thought himself stupid, but it was indeed stupid to think that John wouldn’t catch on. It didn’t seem that he would soon, though.  
Sherlock was flung across the sofa in his dressing gown, John in his armchair with a cup of tea, Earl Grey Sherlock noticed, not the usual English Breakfast. Probably nothing important, though.  
The nicotine patches had worn out their effect, but because of the fact that Sherlock was simply too bored to change them, they stayed. His back was turned to John, but he felt his gaze upon him like tiny daggers, begging him to speak – about what, Sherlock didn’t know, but he had an idea, and since it was him, it was probably quite right.  
“What do you want?” Sherlock finally said.  
John hummed, cleared his throat, folded the newspaper quite neatly, not a care in the world, about to speak words that would be yet another pain to get through, just like every day.  
“What do you want for dinner, Sherlock?” he asked, and Sherlocks breath hitched, back tensed, eyes closed for just a moment, before sitting up a bit aggressively, not enough to worry John, and he turned towards the flatmate.  
“I’m not hungry,” he said.  
“You have to eat,” was the simple answer, Sherlock snorting, cause that thought had never entered his head before, obviously.  
John didn’t seem too worried, though, and for that Sherlock was glad. He did absolutely not have time for a worried doctor in his flat, telling him what and where and when to eat. Sherlock didn’t need to eat. His body was merely transport, useless, stupid transport. His mind was the real deal, and digestion just slowed him down anyways.  
It wasn’t that he thought he was fat. Well, he was, he thought, but logically he knew he was quite skinny, an alright size, he could see that much(but that didn’t stop him from weighing himself every morning like clockwork, excitement as the numbers went down). No, it wasn’t that. It was the control, the pure control it showed. He was in control, not food, not some human need, cause he was not a human, that had been clearly explained multiple times: He was a robot. Cold, cynical, not capable of love or any other human feeling. He was so, so cold. Mentally – but also physically.  
Sherlock wrapped the dressing gown tighter around himself, sending John a look that he prayed didn’t look scared. Because that was what Sherlock Holmes was: Scared.  
“Sherlock, come on, let’s order thai, shall we?” John pleaded.  
“Not. Hungry!” then, in a couple of strides, he was in his bedroom and he slammed the door.

Still, John hadn’t caught on.  
Sherlock didn’t know whether he was relieved or frustrated. Some part of him wished that John would just notice, would notice Sherlocks shirts hanging a little loosely on his frame, notice how dizzy he was, how he sometimes went days, sometimes weeks without eating.  
But at the same time, he was so close to beating his own record. He had gone 18 days without eating now, and his personal best was 23 days. Dangerous? Yes. But so, so satisfying? Also yes.  
He had to get creative, he knew. John had not caught on, yet, but when he made excuses every evening not to eat, it was prone to become suspicious. Fortunately for Sherlock, John worked from 8am to 4, sometimes 5pm, so the only meal he’d have to eat with John was dinner, and it was so shockingly easy to convince the doctor that he’d eaten a large breakfast and lunch, sometimes an afternoon snack, when, in fact, he had done none of that. John didn’t care. That’s what Sherlock thought.

But the truth was, John knew. He noticed the buttons on Sherlocks shirt no longer looked as if they were about to burst, he noticed that none of the food was touched during the day. In the beginning, Sherlock had been careful enough to actually prepare food(to throw it out, of course), but he had gotten careless, it seemed.  
John noticed the scale in the bathroom that seemingly never moved, but one time he saw Sherlock on it through the almost-closed door. He saw the sick smile on his face, probably because he lost weight, and felt nauseous, a completely new kind of sick to his stomach.  
John was not the brains in that relationship, he knew, but he decided to conduct an experiment himself. It drove him insane to see Sherlock do this to himself, he cared way too much about the stupid man to watch him die, commit suicide oh so slowly.  
John began writing down, in a little black book, Sherlocks eating habits. Even if it was just an apple, he wrote it down with the calories next to it, just to keep track.  
Sherlock, of course, noticed. John wasn’t exactly subtle. Every time he would grab for something to eat, John sat there scribbling something down, it didn’t take long for Sherlock to put two and two together. It was stressful, embarrassing, and at the same time he wanted to eat just so that John wouldn’t sit him down and explain to him with his doctor-puppy-eyes that he was killing himself. He knew quite well what he was doing.  
So Sherlock changed his patterns. When John was away at work, he made toast with butter, sometimes spreading jam on the golden pieces of toast that screamed at him – and his stomach screamed back. He would bin it quickly before giving in, then taking out the trash.  
But John was not as stupid as Sherlock seemed to think. It was impossible not to notice that the trash had been taken out each day when he got home from work, something Sherlock had never done in the time they had lived together.

John didn’t know what to do as his experiment reached two weeks, and Sherlock hadn’t eaten anything but one biscuit with his tea one Monday at 5pm as they sat together. It was for show. John was sure.  
They danced around the problem, Sherlock knew John knew about his eating disorder, and John knew Sherlock knew he knew about the eating disorder. A whole mess, really, Sherlock too proud and stubborn to just admit it, John too worried he might ruin his friendship with the man he –  
“John?” Sherlocks baritone voice made his brain go completely quiet.  
He hummed.  
“Aren’t you gonna have dinner?” Sherlock asked.  
John snorted quietly, hoping the other man didn’t notice. But of course he did.  
“Why’s that funny?” Sherlock frowned as John shook his head.  
“It’s not. I’m gonna make some chicken, want some?”  
Having not eaten in fourteen days, beside that dry biscuit, Sherlocks stomach almost growled just at the thought of chicken. But he was strong – he was in control.John lifted both eyebrows. It was quite obvious what he was thinking, and Sherlock saw no other possibility than to say what he especially did not want to say:“Yes, please.”

John cooked the chicken, Sherlock cooked the pasta. Something John would’ve never thought, that Sherlock would be good at cooking. “Just because I don’t do it, doesn’t mean I’m not brilliant at it, as everything else, John”, as he said.  
Well, Sherlock was pretty brilliant at it. In fact, John should really have let Sherlock cook the chicken, just because he was better at it, even if it was John who cooked more often.  
Sherlock shivered in the warm April-breeze, freezing, pretending not to acknowledge it. John didn’t mention it. His experiment was not quite done yet. He needed one last piece of research, one that he was quite afraid of. If he was right, as he feared, then … Then he was out of his depth.  
He looked at Sherlock when he thought Sherlock didn’t notice. He looked sick, skin looking like he was turning to ash. He was so beautiful in the light, but he looked dead, too thin, bones too prominent, clothes hanging loosely. The bags under his eyes were worse than ever, and John wanted to cry and hold him. The curls were brittle and not as full as they had been, and he looked so weak. Sherlock had always been attractive, still was, but John wanted nothing more than to see him healthy again, see the eyes crinkle, sparkle, cause now they were just dull, no life inside them.  
John wanted to punch himself.  
“What are you staring at?” Sherlock asked.  
“Nothing,” John mumbled.  
“Concentrate on the chicken, it’s almost burnt on the other side.”

They sat down to eat, and as it wasn’t Johns first time dealing with eating disorders, he noticed all the behaviours. Sherlock looked at him, almost as if looking for a confirmation that it was okay to eat. But before John could say anything, not even nod, Sherlock had taken the cutlery and begun cutting up the chicken in very small pieces.  
Johns heart sunk, ached. He wanted to scream, didn’t want to believe what he was seeing.  
Sherlock Holmes had an eating disorder?  
They ate in silence, Sherlock counting each piece he ate in his mind, sick to his stomach for each bite. John knew what was going on in his mind, that beautiful mind of his. Calories. He could almost see the numbers counting in Sherlocks eyes.  
He felt sick.  
“I’m going to go to bed,” Sherlock broke the silence.  
His plate was still almost full, none of the pasta had been touched, half the chicken was left uneaten, but still in tiny pieces.  
John didn’t argue, because now came the next part of his experiment.  
“Alright, goodnight,” he tried to sound casual, even if he was scared.  
He counted the seconds from Sherlock left the table til he heard the bathroom door click, locked. He wanted to throw up, punch Sherlock, or both. But it could be nothing, he reminded himself.  
After twenty seconds, John, on his tippy-toes, went to the bathroom door, listened, holding his breath. The faucet was on, but the sound coming from inside was unmistakable. He could almost see Sherlock push the toothbrush down his throat. The broken coughs as he was throwing up was heartbreaking.  
John fell down to the ground, slowly, back against the bathroom door, tears rolling down his face.  
Sherlock Holmes had an eating disorder, and John Watson had no clue how to help him.


	2. Love Will Kill You

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for such a short chapter, I just had to end it where I did.  
> Hope you enjoy this!

John was sat in his armchair when Sherlock returned from the bathroom. The sight broke his heart. Sherlocks eyes were puffy, bloodshot, face red, and, when he spoke, his voice croaky.

“What are you doing tonight?” Sherlock said, completely ignoring the problem.

John cleared his throat. He straightened his back, legs crossed, as he looked at Sherlock with his “I’m a doctor, I can help you”-look. And Sherlock recognised it immediately, turned around and went into his bedroom, slamming the door just loud enough.

John was out of his depth. He knew that. Tears were in the corner of his eyes as he sat there, not knowing what he should do, what was the right thing to do.

Sherlock was in pure panic. John had heard him, no doubt, he’d been on the receiving end of that look way too many times to not catch on, and he was just as clueless as John. He didn’t want to give up, didn't want to let go – he couldn’t. He was in control. Right?

With shaky hands he brought the little black book out from its hiding place, taking a deep breath, just as shaky as his hands, and he scribbled down.

_19th of April_ _: John noticed. I want to die. I want to die. I want to die._

Taken over by a wave of emotions, he fell onto the floor, lying in fetal position on the floor, crying softly. The little black book had fallen under the bed.

If there was something John had never wanted, it was this. He had worried many times in his life, sometimes with good reason, other times, not so much. But this time, it was indeed with good cause, and he wanted to scream, or just punch something – preferably Sherlock, just punch good sense into him. But that wasn’t what Sherlock needed, John neither.

His legs felt like pudding, as if they were to collapse under him at any moment, as he made his way to Sherlocks bedroom door.

He knocked. No answer.

“Sherlock?”

No answer.

“Sherlock?”

No answer.

“Sherlock!”

Still nothing.

“Sherlock Holmes, if you do not open this door, I swear to God, I will knock it down!”

After a couple seconds silence, John had quite a brilliant idea, finally, as he decided to see if the door was locked. He had, after all, not heard the lock click shut.

And it wasn’t locked, but the sight that met him made him wish that it had been. Sherlock Holmes, the brilliant man who saved Johns life, on the floor, crying silently. Just then, John realised that now it might be time for him to save Sherlocks life in return.

“Sherlock,” his voice broke, was just a ghost, a haze between both of them.

And when his legs collapsed, he didn’t try to stand. Instead, he crawled to Sherlock, reaching out to him for dear life, and Sherlock didn’t even tense as John pulled him closer. He didn’t even open his eyes.

But as Sherlock felt Johns touch, all the walls broke down. He sobbed as he was half-sitting in Johns arms, his head against Johns shoulder, the body warmth of his blogger reminding him how cold he was. Oh so cold. They sat still, the only movement being the sobs from deep inside, and normally, the grand Sherlock Holmes would never let himself show himself this broken(he would save that for when he was alone), but this was John, _his_ John, and somehow he felt safe.

John didn’t know how long they sat there. He stroked Sherlocks hair, but the two just sat in silence, both their sobs eventually turning to quiet sniffles.

Finally, Sherlock opened his eyes, bloodshot, dull.

“John?” his voice was raw, but so smooth. John didn’t know it was possible.

“Yes?”

“I …,” he hesitated, “I need to sleep.”

A tinge of regret painted across Sherlocks face as his courage had failed him, John hiding his disappointment.

“Oh. Oh, well, shall we get you up and in bed?” he said, hoping Sherlock wouldn’t notice.

John stood up first, Sherlock quite too weak. As soon as Sherlock was up, John saw him tense up, watched all the walls return.

“Well, I will see you tomorrow, John, goodbye,” and just like that, Sherlock had shut John out, and John stood helpless, watching Sherlock walk towards the bed.

Then it hit him.

Anger.

“What in Hell do you think you are doing, Sherlock? Tell me, cause I sure as hell don’t understand!”  
Sherlock stiffened, it was obvious he heard, but John didn’t give him time to answer.

“Sherlock, if you ever think I will ever let you kill yourself, then you are wrong! That is what you are doing, and I will not stand by and let it happen, do you hear me? I love you, and I will not lose you!” John didn’t shout that often, but now he did, and he only realised his mistake as Sherlock turned around.

He didn’t recognise the emotion in Sherlocks eyes. It was … Was it hope? John was breathless, seeing emotion on Sherlock Holmes face, but he didn’t let himself be fooled by his own desire that it was hope, because of course it wasn’t. Too angry with himself – and with Sherlock –, he turned around, stomped all the way up to his room.

Then he cried himself to sleep.

Bullets were flying through the air, just beside his head. He ran, ran, ran so fast, but got nowhere. But it wasn’t to save himself. Sherlock was standing there, gauntly and thin, his cheeks hollow, bullets whizzing by him, and John had to stop it, he had to save him, he had to …

Then he woke up screaming. Breathing heavily, he sat there for God knows how long, trying to gather himself. If he had had the energy he would’ve cried, but instead he just sat with his head in his hands.

The door creaked open. Slow steps made their way across the room, stopped by the bed, almost as if they hesitating, and then John, who hadn’t looked up, felt someone crawl into the bed, under the covers, and a cold body was felt beside his, sitting beside him.

They sat there in silence. Then Sherlock broke it.

“I heard you scream,” he said with that deep voice that made Johns heart quake.

John gathered himself.

“Sorry. Bad dream,” he said.  
“Tell me.”

“You don't want to know.”

“Try me.”

John took one breath, then two, then three, before deciding that telling Sherlock wouldn’t kill him, wouldn’t make him weak.

“I couldn’t save you,” he mumbled, “I saw the bullets, I ran, but God, Sherlock, I couldn’t save you.”  
Sherlocks breath hitched, and John felt him move ever so slightly closer.

“You can’t save me,” it was just a ghost of a whisper, but John heard, and his heart broke.

John used to be so sure that there were no problem the two couldn’t solve. That he wouldn’t be able to solve. But now, he was not so sure. The only thing he knew was that he would fight, fight to the day he died, to save Sherlock from whatever this was. He really did love him, always had, and love meant fighting for it. He didn’t care – didn’t care if Sherlock didn’t, maybe couldn’t love him back, he just didn’t care. All John cared about was Sherlock.

They sat in silence. Sherlocks bare arms were cold against John, but he didn’t move at all, not even as Sherlock shivered. Instead, John moved closer.

“I don’t want you to,” Sherlock said.

“Oh, sorry,” John pulled away, but much to his surprise, he was pulled back as Sherlock shook his head.

“To love me. I don’t want you to love me, John.”

The last piece of his heart broke, pain in his throat as he tried to swallow the tears. Right. Of course. The rejection was brutal, and once again, John tried to pull back.

“I’m sorry. Married to your work, I know. I’ll move out, I’ll be out tomorrow,” but once again he was pulled back by Sherlock.

Sherlock was a broken man, John could see that, and he seemed frustrated at Johns words.

“John, don’t be stupid,” he hesitated, but John stomach fluttered as the tone in Sherlocks voice sounded like, well, _Sherlock,_ the Sherlock John knew.

John swallowed nervously.

“I don't want you to love me, it will ruin you. I don’t want you to love me, you _will_ be broken. I don’t want you to love me, it will kill you. Love will kill you, John. I don’t want you to love me, cause I … I love you back.”  
John didn’t know what to say, so he stayed dead silent in the cold room, that suddenly felt warmer, even though he could feel Sherlocks cold body.

But he didn’t get a chance to reply.

“John, I do love you, but I am a broken man and I could never make you happy. I could never, I could –“

And just like that, Sherlock jumped out the bed, out the room, and John was left with just the marks from where Sherlock had sat.

But he was left with more, he realised.

Sherlock Holmes loved him.

Sherlock Holmes did love him.


	3. A Broken Man

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John finds Sherlocks little black book.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning for graphic descriptions of drug use! Do NOT read if this is triggering to you!

The air had gone cold in the flat. John didn’t know what to do, or what to say. Sherlock was not an open book, John knew that, but after the night of the confession, Sherlock had gone completely cold and silent. Not even the silent treatment John would sometimes get if he asked Sherlock to just go to bed, not the silent treatment he’d get if he called Sherlock out on his sometimes inhumane comments. This was different.

Sherlock was different.

He would spend most of his time in his bedroom, or in the bathroom, much to Johns displeasure, and his ways were almost completely changed. He didn’t enjoy playing the violin, and he would no longer ask John to crime scenes. John came anyway of course, just to check up on Sherlock.

John hummed. He stood behind Sherlock at Scotland Yard, and Lestrade seemed especially out of his league with this one. As Lestrade scratched his hair, Sherlock showed off. Somehow, it didn’t annoy John, not this time, just because this was the last piece he had left of the stupid man, the last piece of personality Sherlock had left. And though John knew that Sherlock was in there somewhere, it hurt, not having clue how to get him back. Not even all his doctor training could save him now. Nothing could.

His eyes were on Sherlock as Sherlock explained, quite quickly, to Lestrade how the killer must’ve done it, and the motive for the brutal triple murder.

He couldn’t live like this. Neither John or Sherlock could, he realised. But what other options did he have? He couldn’t leave, for numerous reasons. If he left, Sherlock _would_ kill himself – not eating was already doing that to him, and John feared that if he left, there would be no one to stop him. But … That wasn’t the sole reason. He didn’t feel guilty, guilted into staying, not at all. He wanted to stay. It was more than guilt, more than friendship, something John still had quite a hard time wrapping his head around. But no matter how difficult it was to understand, he knew that it was true.

John loved Sherlock, loved the stupid man more than he would ever love anything. Loved his wit, his inappropriately happy demeanour at crime scenes, loved his curls, his eyes, his beautiful mind. John was in love, and he reckoned he’d always been.

He couldn’t ever leave Sherlock, for leaving him meant dooming himself to an unhappy, unsatisfied life. He loved the action, the quiet nights in. He loved when they were on a case, and when they weren’t.

He couldn’t leave if he wanted to be happy. It didn’t matter if Sherlock would ever come around to a relationship, John just needed him like air, needed him close.

Nothing mattered but him. And it scared the shit out of John to think of a future without Sherlock.

Sherlock didn’t know if he wanted to get better. He tried not to think of it, eating, as a problem, even if he knew it was. He saw it coming, he knew he did, and it scared him that it was not periodically this time, for it had stayed for months.

Constantly, the words he uttered that night were played on repeat in his head. How could he be so stupid? How could he have ruined everything? He wanted to be selfish, to take John and make him his, forever. But he couldn’t be. John deserved much more than Sherlock could ever give him, and Sherlock would not be responsible for an unhappy John. He could never live with himself.

As John and Sherlock made their way home, the silence was unbearable. John wanted to just take Sherlock, hold him, heal him, but he didn’t know how. Sherlock wanted the same, but couldn’t allow himself, and so, they stayed silent.

Sherlock went straight to his bedroom as they got home, leaving John in the living room, still with his coat on, and no answers.

The flat was a mess, per usual, and John had no energy to clean it, not even tidy it up a bit.

He sat in his arm chair, coat still on, as he wondered what he should, maybe could do. He made himself a cup of tea, tears in his eyes as he was at a loss.

Sherlock frantically searched his bedroom. The black book was gone, or well, he didn’t remember where he put it.

With crazy eyes, he stormed into the living room, almost fell over a stack of books, scaring John almost enough to make him spill his tea.

“What is going on, Sherlock?” those were the first words John spoke to Sherlock in God knows how long.

“My book, my book, what have you done with it? Tell me where it is!” he said as he threw books around to find the one that mattered – the little black book.

John sighed.

“I don’t have your book. Shall I help you find it?” John almost didn’t get time to finish his sentence, before Sherlock shouted ‘no!’ and then went back to the bedroom.

Two days later, Sherlock went up to his mum for half a day, leaving John alone in the flat they shared. And he was curious. So curious.

He stood in front of Sherlocks bedroom door. It was locked, obviously, but John did know a thing or two about lock-picking, so it didn’t take him long to get it open, the smell of confinement hitting him as he walked in.

The room was a mess, both unlike and very like Sherlock, but this was different. It wasn’t the mad genius-mess, it was a depressed mess, Sherlock too tired to put things where they belonged.

Shirts and trousers were no longer in the closet, but on the furniture, the curtains were keeping out the light, and John wanted to cry.

Then he began searching the room.

He almost tripped over stacks of books to get to the closet, but finding nothing there. Under the covers, there was just … Nothing. The drawers were clean, nothing there.

And then he tripped over Sherlocks violin. John groaned, rubbing his head, annoyed that he found nothing, but also … Relieved.

And then, just then, he saw it. The little black book under Sherlocks bed. Crawling across the floor, he reached in and fished it out from under the bed, sitting up, back against the bed.

His breath was shaky, stopping as he opened the book. In beautiful cursive, numbers were written down with a little lbs next to them. He knew what that meant, and he knew what the ‘kcal’ meant next to other numbers.

All the dates had numbers under them, and the numbers were sickeningly low, making John nauseous. Even more sick he got as he read what Sherlock had written.

_28th of March_ _, didn’t eat today. my wrist are thin enough for me to wrap my hands around. Well, not too impressive, I have large hands._

_29th of March_ _, my ribs are more prominent, but it might be wishful thinking, even though I didn’t eat today._

_30th of March_ _, I haven’t had anything to eat today, and my collarbones are beautiful, but they could be more prominent._

_31st of March_ _, I think I notice a change in my face now. But it might just be the light. Not eating today._

_1st of April_ _, I’m very dizzy, haven’t eaten, but I’ve never felt stronger. My cheek bones are sharp, but …_

John let a finger trace the words, confused as to why the last sentence was left unfinished.

Silently crying, he saw the sentence, that made him wish he was dead.

_19th of April_ _: John noticed. I want to die. I want to die. I want to die._

Had Sherlock – did Sherlock mean this?

In anger, he ripped the pages out, screaming in defeat. If Sherlock meant this, this meant John made him want to die, and then there was nothing left for him.

He broke down, threw the book as far away as he could, it made a sound against the wall, and John put his head in his hands and sobbed.

Maybe Sherlock was a broken man, but John definitely was as well.

John didn’t know how long he sat there. Maybe ten minutes, maybe hours. He didn’t hear the steps coming up the stairs, slow, as if the person climbing the stairs was weak.

“John?” Sherlock panted, and there was no anger in his voice.

John didn’t look up. Sherlock came closer, slowly, as to not scare him off. His eyes fell on the torn up little black book lying on the floor, and his heart sank.

“John, did you … Did you …?” he was scared, his hands quaking and his hands shaking as John got angry.

“Yes, I did! Yes, I did, Sherlock!” he was still sobbing as he got up, standing in front of Sherlock.

One broken man in front of another.

“If you hate me this much, if I really make you want to die, then I’ll let you go! It’s fine! You should’ve just said so!” John shouted, cause even though he knew it was Sherlocks eating disorder that made him write that, it was like a razor to the heart.

Sherlock watched on, in horror, as John stormed out the bedroom, then out the flat.

One second. Then two, then three. Then the tears came, and Sherlock threw his arms around himself, for he felt so cold, and not the physical cold that had tortured him. This was worse. This was the man he loved, abandoning him, because he wasn’t enough, because he was stupid, because he was … Because he was Sherlock.

He stod there for a while. Then, with shaking legs, he walked, slowly, to another hiding place of his. His hands were shaking, and that would be a problem, but Sherlock didn’t care.

There was nothing left to care about.

He didn’t care as he heated it, he didn’t care as he filled the syringe. He didn’t care as he lifted his sleeve, he didn’t care as the needle went in, he pushed the syringe down, his ears rang, he pushed it further down, and further, and further, and then …

Then it went black.


	4. Living Without You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What's the point of John Watson if there is no Sherlock Holmes?

John Watson was not a weak man, but he felt so as he found himself sitting in a café as far away from Baker Street as his feet could carry him.

As soon as he had sat down on the very uncomfortable café chair, a wave of nothingness rushed over him, and he had to fight not to cry.

He was stupid, for of course Sherlock hadn’t meant it that way, of course he hadn’t meant John made him want to die. Of course not.

He was stupid, stupid for leaving Sherlock alone. Sherlock had to be heartbroken – some part of John hoped he was, that Sherlock was indeed heartbroken without him. Because John sure as hell was heartbroken without Sherlock.

And he was stupid, for why would he leave the man he loved because of a little black book containing a sickness which Sherlock could not control? Why had he lost his temper, when Sherlock needed him?

So then, he decided to go home.

The taxi ride was too slow. He spent all of it dreaming that when he opened the door, Sherlock would welcome him home, their lips would meet, and it would be alright. Sherlock would still be sick, John would still be helpless, but it would be alright. They would fight, together.

John hadn’t locked the door after him. He went in, stood in front of Mrs. Hudsons apartment, wanting to apologise for storming out.

But something was off. There was not a sound from his and Sherlocks apartment, and death filled the air.

Johns heart had never beaten faster as he slowly went up the stairs.

The living room was unchanged, books and paper everywhere. And as he looked around, the door to Sherlocks bedroom was closed.

“Sherlock?” he knocked on it, no answer.

“Sherlock?” again, no answer.

“Sherlock, please. I … I love you, Sherlock, and we will make it through this together, alright?”

But even then, no answer, and John saw no other option but to pick the lock.

And God, did he wish he hadn’t. The sight that met him when he opened the door made his legs turn useless, and he was close to fainting as he fell to the floor. His heart was quaking, aching, as he crawled towards the lifeless man on the floor.

“Sherlock,” he whispered, but his eyes were closed, and he looked so peaceful.

“No, no, no, no, no,” he kept repeating as he got closer to Sherlock, his Sherlock, with the needle still in the crook of his arm.

Why had Sherlock done this? Was it John? Or was it an accident? Was it Johns fault, was it his fault, and God, was he … Was he dead?  
John shook him, and the curls bounced, but his body was lifeless. How did this happen, hadn’t John thrown out all the drugs, and could he even live if Sherlock didn’t? Living without him would be useless.

John cried as he called 999, sobbing as he begged them to send an ambulance, and though they promised to come soon, it felt like forever.

The hospital was cold, and John wasn't allowed in Sherlocks room. He didn’t want to see it anyways, the doctor said. It was critical.

He was tired, but he couldn’t sleep, not knowing whether Sherlock lived or died. He spent the time rethinking everything he wanted to have said to him, the life they could’ve lived. Soon, the thoughts began to wonder about what he would do if Sherlock was indeed dead.

He knew. After all, he had the pills in his drawer, the gun somewhere, too. It would be way too easy. Living without Sherlock wouldn’t.

As he sat deep in thought, a doctor began speaking.

“John Watson? Here for Sherlock Holmes?” she asked.

John shot up from his seat, heart beating too fast for anyone to survive. But he did, even though he wished it would kill him.

“Is he dead? Oh God, don’t say he’s dead, please,” he finally got out.

The doctor didn’t answer right away, not even a nod, but neither did she shake her head.

She handed him a piece of paper, and his heart stopped at the sight of Sherlocks handwriting.

“We found this in his pocket. I can’t tell you if he’ll live, but it’s not looking good,” she disappeared back into Sherlocks room, and John was stood with a little note he was too scared to read.

It took him about three minutes before he finally opened the note.

He held his breath as he read.

_“John,_

_My John. When you read this, if you do, it’ll be my last words to you. My last goodbye._

_There are so many things I wish I could say to you, you wouldn’t possibly know, but I’ll use my time wisely._

_I’ve always been told I do not have a heart. Not capable of emotion. I thought it was true, but you came to prove me wrong._

_I’ve never understood love as anything but a chemical defect found in the losing side. But John, if loving you is losing, I will lose forever, happily._

_I love you. I love you, I love you, I love you. I’m sorry I could never be what you dreamed of._

_For all the things I’ve done in my life, good or bad, think of this as the best. I’m leaving this way, so you can get what you deserve. You deserve gold, not a broken shell of a man._

_I love you, but I could never make you happy._

_I love you, but I would tear you apart._

_I love you, but this is for the best._

_I love you._

_I am sorry for all the pain I’ve caused you. I hope my leaving will make up for it._

_Yours forever,_

_Sherlock”_

John didn’t know if he wanted to scream, or punch, or die. This _had_ been a suicide attempt. This _was_ Sherlocks choice.

He fumbled for his phone, couldn’t dial in the haze of his tears, but finally, he called the right number.

But when Mycroft picked up, John couldn’t say anything.

“Hello John. What do I owe this pleasure?” Mycroft said after too many silent seconds.

John cleared his throat.

“It’s Sherlock,” was all he managed to get out.

“What’s he done now?”  
“He … He’s killed himself.”

“Stay there, I’m coming.”

Mycroft sure got there quick. Before John could say anything, Mycroft began speaking.

“What’s happened?” he said.

John stared into the air as he answered, not wanting to think about what had happened, but answering anyways.

“We had a fight, and when I got back, I found him, and he had … He had taken an overdose of heroin.”

“And he’s dead?” Mycroft didn’t sound concerned, but John didn’t care.

“I don’t know.”

Mycroft sat down. Then they sat in silence.

The doctor came back too many hours later, and John didn’t even have the energy to look at her.

She smiled apologetically as she introduced herself to Mycroft. She looked at John, and John couldn’t decipher the look on her face.

“Do you want to see him?” she asked, finally.

Johns eyes shot up.

“Is he alive?”

“Yes. But he’s in a coma, and we don’t know if he’ll wake up. Ever,” she smiled, a sad smile, recognising the pain on Johns face.

Sherlock looked so pale and thin in the bed, hooked up to too many machines, and John wished Sherlock would’ve taken him with him. Wherever Sherlock was, John wished he was with him.

Mycroft followed him into the room, and John didn’t care that he broke down beside the bed with Mycroft there.

“Sherlock,” John whispered, and the doctor gestured to Mycroft that he should leave.

Johns legs, once again, could not bear the weight of his body, and John clung onto Sherlocks bed, the clinically white bed, to hold himself up.

He couldn’t cry. He was just … Numb. Nothing made sense anymore, and here was the proof.

Sherlock looked dead, and though John knew he wasn’t, he also knew he could be any moment.

Weeks went by without any bettering of Sherlock. He didn’t wake up, but he didn’t die, either.

John was there every day, sitting by his side, telling him about the news, the murders, how Lestrade needed him, and finally, how John needed him.

He cried, screamed, shouted, and got no answer.

He couldn’t bear it. The emptiness.

His breath shook as he decided that there were no hope left. No hope for Sherlock, and therefore, no hope for John.

As he found some clean paper in his back pocket, and asked the doctor for a pen, he wondered what to say, to say goodbye.

Finally, he wrote down:

_“Sherlock,_

_You were the most brilliant man I ever knew, and perhaps also the dumbest._

_How could you think I would be happy without you? How could you think that you not being here is a relief?_

_You ruined my life, Sherlock, by leaving._

_I can never live at Baker Street again, I can never live in London again, I can never look Mycroft in the eyes, and …_

_I can never love again._

_I can never live again._

_If you chose this way to go, then I guess you won’t mind I do the same._

_I’ll see you soon. Perhaps we’ll finally be happy, wherever we’ll meet._

_I love you. I’ll see you on the other side._

_John”_

The cab ride home was unbearable, too long.

Would he have the guts? Would he succeed?

Mrs. Hudson greeted him at the door with all her questions. John answered none, but went for the pills in the drawer.

His hands were too steady as he poured all the sleeping pills. This was the right thing to do. He was sure.

A handful would be enough to kill him, but he wanted to make sure. He decided to take them all.

As he got ready to take the first handful, he closed his eyes.

“Sherlock, I love you,” he whispered.

Slowly, he brought his hand to his mouth, he could smell the pills, so scared to take them, but also so ready.

Then the phone rang.


	5. Is This Happiness?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “He’s awake,” Mycroft said, and then there was quiet, John too overwhelmed to even say anything.

Slowly, annoyed, John opened his eyes. Of course the phone rang, of course! Couldn’t he just get some peace and quiet?

He fumbled for his phone with his other hand, sighed at the name on the screen. ‘Mycroft’.

He took a deep breath before answering.

“Hello?” annoyance in his voice.

Silence.

“He’s awake,” Mycroft said, and then there was quiet, John too overwhelmed to even say anything.

“I’m coming.”

Then he threw the pills at the wall and hurried out the door.

It felt like everything was going in slow-motion. John almost fell out of the cab as it stopped outside the hospital, running like crazy towards Sherlocks room, so scared that he had misunderstood what Mycroft had said.

Mycroft was outside Sherlocks room. A small smile played on his lips.

“John, how good to see you,” he said, but John had no time for that.

He rushed past the older Holmes-brother, slamming the door open, and … And there he was. Sherlock.

But his eyes were closed.

“Sherlock,” John breathed out, disappointed.

But before John could turn around and kill Mycroft, Sherlock opened his eyes, and as they laid upon John, there was nothing but pure shame, and John wished to God he could take it away.

Slowly, John moved towards the bed, afraid to scare Sherlock. But Sherlock didn’t move, eyes on him at all times.

“John,” Sherlock looked shameful, but also angry. John didn’t understand before he noticed Sherlocks fist, clenched around a piece of paper – oh God.

John looked away, almost considered getting the hell out of the hospital room before Sherlock could scold him.

“John,” Sherlock said again, but when John looked at him, his eyes were soft, shiny tears in each corner.

And as Sherlock held out a weakened hand, John almost tripped over himself to hurry over and take it.

Sherlocks hand was cold, so cold, and John felt tears beginning to break through.

“I am so sorry, John,” Sherlock whispered only just audible, “I didn’t know. I didn’t think that I, that my life, would ever mean something to you. I thought you’d get over it. I didn’t think that by taking my life, I was taking yours as well. Please forgive me.”

Caressing Sherlocks hand, John moved closer, sat down in the chair next to Sherlocks bed.

“You stupid man,” John sat and quickly continued as Sherlocks face fell, “I forgive you, always. Always.”

And as a smile showed on Sherlocks face, John had never been more in love.

Sherlock came home a week later.

John helped him up the stairs, Sherlock still too weak to walk by himself. As Sherlock sat in his arm chair, John experienced pure happiness. A second chance. He couldn't stop from smiling as he made tea for the two of them, and he was almost ecstatic as Sherlock ate his dinner without throwing it up. John knew they were far from done, Sherlock was far from healed, but this was a start.

John laid in bed. He couldn’t sleep, scared shitless of leaving Sherlock alone.

He hadn’t cleaned up the pills since that day, the bottle still on top of the drawer. He didn’t care. It was a reminder of how fragile life was, and perhaps he saw it as a way out, if Sherlock ever decided for that again.

He turned around in the bed again. It was quiet, the flat had gone silent, and Johns heart was beating too fast at the thought of Sherlock doing something stupid, even if he probably wasn’t.

But John got out of bed anyways, headed for the door as two small knocks on it made him step back.

The door opened too slowly, but the sight behind it was worth it. Sherlock with his ruffled hair, a t-shirt and pyjama bottoms.

John smiled.

“Hello,” he said.

“Hello,” Sherlock replied, hesitated: “Can I sleep here tonight?”

John reached out for Sherlocks hand, leading him to the bed.

“Always, Sherlock.”

Then Sherlock stood completely still and let go of Johns hand. Sherlocks eyes were stuck on the pills on the drawer.

“Oh,” John said, scratching his necks, ashamed. Tears began falling, again, too exhausted to actually cry, he just let them fall.

“John,” Sherlocks voice filled with a pain John had never witnessed before.

When John looked up, Sherlock was coming towards him, like he wanted to punch him – well, at least that was what he deserved, John thought.

But when Sherlock got closer, he didn’t stop to punch him. Instead he got so close John could smell the hospital on him, he could see every pore on his face.

John forgot that soon enough as Sherlocks hand, so tender, found its way to Johns face, tracing his cheek where the tears were falling, gently wiping them away.

“I’m sorry, Sherlock,” John whispered.

Sherlock smiled just a tad, before inching down to John til their noses touched. John felt dizzy, his whole body overworking itself to keep him from slamming his lips against Sherlocks, but he couldn’t let go. He wanted to do this at Sherlocks pace.

“Don’t ever do that again,” Sherlock said, and John could feel the ghost of his lips against his own, “Please, John, never do that again.”

And before John could answer, his body gave up fighting against it. He lifted his head the last bit, finally meeting Sherlock in a kiss that he had waited for so long. Sherlock didn’t tense up, but sank into John, whose hands were on Sherlocks chest.

John sighed as Sherlock kissed him back, feeling Sherlocks heartbeat through the thin t-shirt. It was fast, but so was Johns, he felt as if he could hear his own heartbeat.

This was happening, this was happiness, and John felt at ease.

He sighed against Sherlocks lips before pulling away.

His forehead still touched Sherlocks, his eyes still closed, but with a smile on his face, a genuine smile for the first time in so long.

“I love you. Let’s go to bed,” John said.

Sherlock slept through the night for the first time in months. He awoke first, just silently looking at John as he lay beside him. Was this happiness?

Johns eyes fluttered open, and as soon as he saw Sherlock, a smile appeared.

“Hello, my love,” Johns voice was croaky.

This was happiness, Sherlock deduced. Being called ‘my love’ by John, he decided, was the only thing he’d ever want to be called by him from now on.

John lifted a hand to Sherlocks hair and stroked it, his hand finding its way to Sherlocks cheek, making Sherlock lean forwards to press a small kiss on Johns lips.

John returned it, giggled when Sherlock pulled away.

“What?” Sherlock asked, making John giggle louder.

“I love you, I just … Love you,” he said.

Sherlocks baritone voice made Johns heart quake:

“And I love you.”


	6. As Happy as You Make Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Finally happiness is back at 221b Baker Street.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the short chapter!  
> I decided to not torture John and Sherlock anymore, hence this will be the final chapter of this story.  
> Thank you all so much for reading and commenting!

Months went by. Sherlock got better. He really did. And maybe, just maybe John hoped, it was because he wanted to get better.

He ate his meals, even if the portions were a little too small sometimes, and it was once in a blue moon that John heard the shower turn on for something other than a shower.

John was happy. Finally.

Sherlock wanted to get better. He did. He tried his best, for now, he had the best reason:

John Watson loved him.

When things got rough, Sherlock imagined what the future could hold for them, if he just held on. If he just ate. It was still pretty damn difficult, but John made it easier. John made everything easier, just by breathing.

Sherlock was flung on the sofa in his dressing gown as John came through the door.

“Hello, my love,” the words had become so ingrained in his brain, they just came out, and it always put a smile on Sherlocks face.

“My dear,” Sherlock answered.

When John sat down next to Sherlock, something was in the air that Sherlock was not quite sure of.

John hesitated to speak.

“Sherlock, I need to … I need to ask you something,” those words sent full-body electric shocks through Sherlock.

Sherlock swallowed. He was scared, although he did not for John to go on.

John moved in his seat, clearly uncomfortable.

“Did you … Did you take the overdose because I noticed something was wrong? Was it – was it my fault?” John asked.

As soon as the words were out in the world, Sherlocks whole face softened as he looked at the doctor.

“John … Oh, John, no, no, I – it could never be your fault. I was a stupid, broken man, who felt as if the weight of the whole world was on my shoulders. You … You saved me. You saved my life, and I’ll forever be in your debt.”

As John shook his head, Sherlock disappeared into his bedroom, but not in the angry way he used to. As John looked at Sherlocks frame disappearing from the living room, he couldn’t help but smile. Sherlock looked … _Alive_ again, healthier, not the grey ash-Sherlock he had been. His eyes were no longer dull, his body was healthy, almost, and he enjoyed simple things as he used to. John wouldn’t lie to himself and say Sherlock was completely healed, for what he went through leaves scars, but John knew that together, they could fight through it. They would manage.

“In fact,” Sherlock said as he came back from the bedroom, almost jumping to stand beside the couch where John still sat.

“John,” Sherlock looked so nervous that John felt a fright. Had Sherlock … Did Sherlock have problems again?  
But as Sherlock shakily got down on one knee, John understood what was happening, although he didn’t quite believe it.

Sherlock Holmes … Proposing to him?

Sherlock cleared his throat a couple times, looked down as he retrieved a ring box from the pocket of his night gown.

“John, you saved me in my darkest hour when I could not see a way out. I do not only see a way out now, I see a whole future. I see _our_ future. You are the love of my life, and I never want to live without you.

I will never be able to say the right words, I will never be able to do the right things, I will always be inappropriately happy at murder scenes, and I will always bring home macabre experiments and put them in the refrigerator.

But I will also spend the rest of my life trying to make you as happy as you make me. John Hamish Watson … Will you marry me?”

Tears in Johns eyes as Sherlock shakily asked the question he had wanted to for so long, and that John had hoped so dearly he’d be asked one day.

It was quite obvious in Sherlocks eyes that he feared a ‘no’, but that was not an answer John could ever provide.

John jumped down the couch, crying happy tears, and crawled towards Sherlock. The ring was beautiful, but John couldn’t take his eyes off of Sherlock, as he threw his arms around his neck and pulled him in for a kiss.

“Is that a yes?” Sherlock asked.

John nodded.

“That’s a hell yes.”


End file.
